A Wildflower's Whim
by Deidra Liadan
Summary: Sometimes wholeness must come through first being broken. Especially if one is a wildflower; traveling new plains, growing in new soils, and enduring new storms...
1. Prologue

Trepidation.

It hung in the air with the fog, and crept like the worms in the ground beneath.

Between this dread, hanging high and lying low, a young woman stood.

The wet, foggy air clung to her alabaster skin like dew on a blade of grass, and hung beaded in her long, cinnamon hair like raindrops on a spiderweb.

Her bare, slender feet stood planted in the black mud beneath her, where they'd stood for so long that she thought they could feel the earth's pulse.

She stared ahead at a young man, who sat comfortably on a tombstone. Though he faced away from her, she could tell from the small of his back, which rhythmically moved back and forth, that he was swinging his hanging legs like the anxious child which lay suppressed behind his calm facade.

The woman breathed in deeply. How much longer could the frightened child within herself be suppressed?

She leaned back against a stone coffin behind her, and her long bony fingers traced the lid's rim. She glanced to her left; barely visible amidst the fog was an open grave.

That was where her whole tribe could soon end up if they failed to escape Ireland tonight, as planned. Otherwise, such graves would be their permanent escape from this world, instead.

She quickly averted her gaze from the earth's gaping mouth, as if the very depths of hell wailed from it; hungrily, savagely.

But they wouldn't have her tribe. No, not tonight.

She squinted her eyes, although they had long adjusted to the darkness of the surrounding graveyard.

"Tell me this, Cedric," she uttered, shattering the window of silence which had been standing between she and the young man in front of her.

"Tell me this," she repeated. "How long does it take—_should_ it take—for one to gather a few wagons and horses?"

Without turning, the man replied, "As long as the patience of those who wait on him endures."

The woman rolled her eyes. "Well, my patience is running out, so he'd better arrive soon."

"Angus will get here, Colleen. Just wait…"

"We have been waiting, and for long enough!" Her fingers tingled as they squeezed the coffin's lid. "We should've been heading back to the ship by now!"

Cedric twisted his torso around to face her. "I said, 'just wait!' We can't give up and go runnin' off just because Angus hasn't shown up yet. We promised to help him with the horses and wagons, and stay to that promise we will!"

Colleen shook her head. "No need to get yourself so riled up, brother! I'm not saying that we should abandon our friend. I only fear that something might've happened to him…"

Cedric turned away, resuming his previous position. "Angus assured us that if somethin' went amiss, he'd blast a note from his flute. Besides, neither Captain O'Keefe nor Captain Moore is goin' anywhere until those wagons are loaded to their ships. All right, then?"

Colleen made no response. She was not "all right," for she still couldn't shun from her troubled spirit the dread of of the impending unknown.

She bowed her head, wishing this night to be only a dream, and pass away with the stars when she awoke from it, like every dream did. But reality had proven to be the worst kind of dream. One thousand nightmares could never be as terrible as real life, because it was just that; real. Forever to be. There was no waking up from it.

Someone had once said that "home is where the heart lies." If that was the case, then Colleen's heart was slowly being ripped out of her chest; for beloved Lady Ireland was finally turning her face away from the girl and her clan.

True, every place had a tendency to be wary or even hostile toward its nomadic inhabitants. But Dublin, Ireland's gem, now looked with hatred upon the nomads, its eyes aflame with blood-lust. From behind its gnashing teeth had come many accusations of thievery, witchcraft, sorcery, and most of all, plots of insurrection against high authority.

Those accusations had since mutated into some sort of twisted truth about those gypsies, which ingrained itself into the mind of Dublin. Now, it saw the once welcomed wanderers as a spreading disease.

The highland gypsies had become a sin that needed to be purged.

Of course, this blight was, for now, only affecting Colleen's tribe, which was split into two separate clans. But Colleen reasoned that it wouldn't be long before this ill judgement was cast out to the rest of Ireland's gypsies. When that did happen, if it happened, there'd be nowhere else to go, for they'd be hated in every town, and trapped on an island as gallows loomed before them.

So Colleen's tribe had collectively decided to avoid that snare, and move on to safer plains; Paris, France.

Invaluable timing and connections all seemed to fit perfectly into their plans… almost too perfectly. It had all moved along flawlessly, so far; from mapping safe forest routes, to stealthily gathering supplies in town, to finding sailors willing to smuggle gypsies out of the country.

So far, their efforts were still undiscovered. But for how long, Colleen wondered? Her stomach turned more and more as her dread was slowly boiling within her.

Suddenly, the sound of rumbling hoofbeats approached, reverberating through the ground like a thunderstorm. Cedric leapt from his elevated seat on the tombstone and crouched, peering out from behind it.

"Hide, quickly!" he hissed, without turning. "I'll see who it is, and I'll holler if it's safe. Go now, hurry!"

Colleen whirled around. With practiced ease and seasoned strength, she pushed the coffin's stone lid aside so that it opened just enough for her to slide in through. Without hesitation, she leapt into the coffin, slightly cringing at the sound which followed, emitting from beneath her; the loud crunch of decaying bones.

She lay down, on her back. Then, in a smooth though laborious effort, she lifted the stone slab above with her outstretched feet, and set it back into place.

Everything was pitch black and quiet, except for the muffled sounds outside and Colleen's heaving breath.

She closed her eyes. Although this wasn't the first time she'd hidden with the dead, and wasn't likely to be her last, Colleen's skin crawled every time she touched the skull which lay behind her own.

And judging by the discomfort in her neck and head, she concluded that she was lying upon the rusty breastplate of a once-valiant knight. She wondered how many other women's heads had rested where her own now lay.

Then Colleen's breath caught, and she stiffened when she heard muffled voices outside of the stone casket.

She heard a shout. It was Cedric, saying something undefined.

Colleen's throat constricted, and then she listened more carefully when she heard it again.

"Colleen! It's all right; 'tis only Angus!"

She gasped in relief. Finally, he had arrived!

Repeating her previous motions to move the slab above her, she squeezed up through the crack and drank in the night air, which was invigorating compared to the stale smell of death with which she'd been trapped.

She jumped out, landing in the mud once again, and heaved the lid back. She turned and ran toward two men, and three weathered wagons, each attached to two equally weathered horses. Within seconds, she was standing among the two men; one young and tan, and the other older and grayed. The latter turned to the pale girl as she approached. His eyes were squinted.

"Ain't that taboo, what you've gone and done, McCallister?"

Colleen crossed her arms. "Aye... superstitious, are you now?"

"Jugdin' by the way you were scurryin' I'd say you thought the same."

"Now, Angus; you know me better than that!"

Angus' eyes twinkled. "Can't say that I do." Then the twinkle faded as he turned his attention toward the antsy horses behind him, which pawed at the ground and snorted vehemently.

"We can't be loiterin' much longer. It was hard enough tyin' and pullin' three blasted wagons together, but now we need to be gettin' them to the ships." He turned back toward the young adults, looking each in the eye. "You remember our plan?"

Colleen nodded, reciting it in her mind. Each of them would take their own wagon, then they'd go down different routes which were to safely lead them all to their designated ships. Cedric and Colleen would meet at the ship they were boarding, and Angus would go board the other.

"Cedric, Colleen," said he, reaffirming that he had their attention. "I've already separated the wagons, so go along now!"

Colleen swallowed as Angus departed quickly, before she could even respond. He rarely ever called anyone by their fist names; just their last. Hence, Colleen was "McCallister," and Cedric was "Fallon."

She quickly smothered the panging guilt within and hoisted herself up onto her wagon. Angus thundered away in front of her, already at a canter.

Then she cracked the long reins across her two horses' backs. They threw their heads down and broke into a jolting canter. She glanced over her left shoulder. Cedric's wagon was swiftly coming up alongside hers. He glanced over as well, and their eyes locked. This was where they'd part.

He shot her a boyish grin and nodded once, then sharpy jerked his reins left. Simultaneously, Colleen jerked her reins to the right; into the inky blackness of the forest path.

* * *

Colleen's heart pounded with the horses' hoofbeats. She deftly opened her right rein, and the wagon swung out in the back as she did so. To straighten out, she jerked both reins the other way, causing the horses to side-step rigidly.

They had calmed down, but Colleen's level head was just becoming hazed with renewed angst.

She'd heard other hoofbeats.

That had been quite a while ago, and she'd stayed calm enough to simply ease her pace and change her course; and soon, the other rider was out of earshot. But worry had since niggled in her mind.

Her thoughts were suddenly shattered by the resonant sound of crashing waves. Overhead, gulls cried in discordant pitches, as if they knew something that Colleen didn't; like some dreadful doom impending.

Colleen could feel her skin prickling with goosebumps from discomfort and the brisk sea breeze.

She had reached the harbor.

With another flick of the reins, she turned the wagon so that it emerged from a wall of trees, immediately coming out on a grassy slope. Colleen gasped in horror as the horses jumped down the sudden decline, bringing the cumbersome wagon flying with them.

Crash!

It landed on the gravel road below, nearly throwing Colleen out. She leaned back and slowed the shaken horses to a halt. Then she hopped out and encircled the wagon, inspecting it.

She sighed with relief after she came back around. It seemed that the wagon had recieved little damage from the impact of the harsh landing.

With that, she clambered back up to her seat and clucked her tongue, spurring her horses onward.

Hopefully, Captain O'Keefe and Cedric would forgive her tardiness. After all, who were they to judge her? Cedrick had just barely managed to gather foodstuffs with some other men from the clan, and Captain O'Keefe had made repairs to his ship, _The Bonny Maid, _only two nights ago.

Colleen grinned, planning her brilliant retort for when they'd start pestering her about being late.

Men could be so irrational sometimes; but then again, who was she to speak?

Colleen shook her head and chuckled before she let herself dwell on the issue all over again.

Suddenly, she realized that she was actually finding merriment in the midst of trials. Her countenance instantly sobered and her concience became swamped with guilt. She focused on the road before her.

Then, she heard hushed voices up ahead, and barely visible were three looming masts, piercing through the fog like a needle pierces fabric. Their sails were just being unfurled, billowing like a river serene.

Averting her gaze from the marvelous sight, she saw the sillhouettes of two men running down the road toward her. Colleen instantly recognized them as they approached.

"We haven't enough trouble already, is that it?" Cedric's voice held a sharp twinge to it as he rigidly took hold of one of the horses while the man beside him took the other.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to take so long..." The "brilliant" monologue Colleen had originally planned was long gone, now.

"Need I remind you, young lass," grumbled the other man as he helped lead the horses down the path, "that all it takes is a delay of one minute to cost scores of lives?"

Colleen sat wringing her hands as the cart bumped along. "I only took a different route, Captain…"

"Colleen, why didn't you follow the plan? We could've been shoving off by now!"

She glared at the back of Cedric's head, which shook impatiently. "Because I heard someone else in the woods, that's why!"

Both men whirled their heads around. Cedric's mouth hung open. "What?"

"I mean... it could be nothing," she replied, a little shakily, "but I didn't want to take too great a risk."

The men went much faster, tugging the horses along behind them. The captain uttered some curses beneath his breath.

Colleen swallowed. "Richard, shouldn't one of us visit the other captain and warn him?"

"No, lass," Captain O'Keefe responded. "Colin's probably already shovin' out, like we very well should be doin.'"

"But what if--"

"We're leavin' this accursed isle, and we're leavin' it now!"

Cedric briefly turned his head and shot Colleen a warning look, so she pursed her lips. She prayed that the good captain was right about them her tribe's other half, about their safety.

* * *

"Hoist the anchor, boys!"

Groans followed the husky captain's command, both from the chain being hoisted, and from the men doing the hoisting.

Colleen kept her worried eyes on the shore in front of her. She prayed that her tribe's other half had set sail.

She peered over her shoulder. She could see that a few others appeared to be praying the same.

The ship rocked as its sails unfurled and caught the whipping sea breezes, slowly propelling it away from the quiet, shadowy docks.

Colleen's stomach leapt, but her heart sunk. This was the moment they'd all been waiting for, as she could hear from the excited talk behind her.

But something wasn't right.

Then, a hand gently touched her shoulder. Collen looked up to her right. There was Cedric, half-smiling as his brown eyes twinkled. "Sea-sick already?"

Colleen's breathing picked up as she continued watching the shore rapidly fade amidst the fog. "Cedric, I'm afraid."

Cedric shook his head. "Ah, you'll be fine. I know you're going to miss it, but…"

"This isn't about what I'm definitely leaving behind; it's about what we could be leaving, but shouldn't be!"

"What…?"

"The rest of them, Cedric! The rest of us!"

Suddenly, a terrible cacophony boomed in the distance. All heads turned east.

Smoke billowed above the fog, and the savage hollers of soldiers joined by clanging metal echoed through the starless night. Screams of terror immediately ensued.

Everyone on the ship gravitated to port. Only Colleen stayed standing at the ship's stern, paralyzed.

She couldn't breathe. Her vision was blurring. A cry rose in her throat, but was asphixiated by sobs which convulsed in her chest. All around her, people cried out in realization of the calamity taking place in the distance; it was happening at the other harbor, to the rest of the tribe.

Colleen only shook her head, her eyes wide and unblinking. This couldn't be happening.

Then, rising above the tragic discord, a musical note blasted.

It was a flute's note.

Angus.

Colleen's head snapped to her right, and tears leaked from her eyelids. She knew the melody which he now played. It was a song which accompanied a tragic fireside tale of two friends who set out to find their heart's desires; but only one could go onward to complete the journey.

Colleen's heart stood still as the faint melody droned on, accompanied by the cataclysmic sounds of aguish. Then she softly sang in a cracked voice, between sniffles:

"Go forth, ye now… now forth, ye go. There awaits a home of gold…"

She couldn't bear to sing out the next line, for it held truth regarding the present moment. Then she felt Cedric's hand upon her shoulder once again. She collapsed into the strong arms which gripped her tightly, burying her face into his chest while she let out her trapped sobs.

Then, she felt his voice reverberating through his chest. It sang out strongly:

"...Like branch from yew, from your side was hewn. My company, now roam ye free!"

Soon, the entire clan upon the ship slowly joined their voices with his strong one, singing the Celtic lament from the depths of their souls, wallowing in every line, and joining their voices like a band of angels.

"_Slán agus beannacht leat,_

_My love for you was ne'er for naught._

_But stay for me,_

_On bended knee._

_Rath Dé ort, mo grá, mo grá._

"_Ascend ye now, now ye ascend,_

_From ash to snow, from foe to friend._

_But in prosperity,_

_Think of me._

_Though comp'ny sweet,_

_We'll ne'er again keep._

" _Slán agus beannacht leat,_

_My love for you was ne'er for naught._

_Though gone I'll be,_

_Bow head for me._

_Rath Dé ort, mo grá, mo grá…"_

Colleen pulled herself away from her dear brother's embrace, and looked around. Many were knelt upon the deck, bowing their heads, likewise to what the song had mentioned.

The flute still played, though its heavenly voice faded as the ship drew farther away.

She leaned her palms against the wooden railing at the ship's stern Already, her homeland had become only a steadily decreasing strip of rolling hills and lonely crags. She could still she a black, billowing column of smoke curling upward, and pinhead-sized torch flames danced beneath it.

Colleen's face stung from the salt of both her tears and the ocean winds.

Then a wave of seawater sploshed up against the backside of the ship, and soaked Colleen's face.

She licked her parched lips, tasting the salty water.

It was her last taste of home; her last taste of the Emerald Isle.

* * *

**Note: This is merely a prologue to introduce one of my original characters. Don't worry, some familiar faces will show up soon. I promise...**


	2. Chapter I

Morning in Paris.

Its sky was so flawlessly azure that it could put even the bonniest child's eyes to shame. Birds streaked across it like spiders scurrying across a web.

Standing in stark contrast to Paris' sky, the steeples of Notre Dame de Paris towered like soldiers' lances, held erect by ready hands.

The cathedral loomed like a watchful queen over her province, yet also like a motherly shepherdess guarding her lamb.

But now, she cast a shadow of disdain over the town beneath. Although sunlight pooled in the town's street and reflected from the gravel, making it glisten like a treasure trove of gold, its people flowed through the streets like on overfilled stream after a storm.

This stream, however, emitted no pleasant sounds; only sounds of frayed nerves and flustered impatience. While a stream can sound like a bubbly child's laughter, the majority of childlike sounds coming from this stream of humanity were those of temper tantrums and cries of confusion. Only a few children, those who were patient and content, let out some sounds of delight.

Traveling merchants were coming to the town square, and everyone wanted to be part of the liveliness in preparing for them; even if they had to frenzy about like ants under a rock. Goods had to be traded, gossip had to be shared, and advantages just had to be taken.

All went about their duties, but none detected the rogue in their midst.

She stood right outside of the bakers shop, with some barrels and crates. She scanned over a small bagette, turning it over in her hand.

The bakerman before her intently watched his masterpiece twirl around in those tan hands. He drummed his meaty fingers against the table he stood behind. Although he might have been suprised and even intimidated by this exotic-looking customer, he appeared to conceal those traits well, for he stood unflinching.

Wary of dishonest hands whisking away the fruit of his labor, he kept his countenance stony, his gaze locked, and his fingers drumming; ready to spring like a trap at any moment.

The girl examining the loaf glanced up. Her sharply slanted eyebrows twitched with amuzement.

It was time for a test.

She tossed her waist-long, black hair aside with a kittenish flair. Her long, thick eyelashes batted a few times, and her face held the sweetest expression she could conjure up; painstakingly practiced, of course, so as not to seem as sickeningly sweet as an eclair stuffed with too much icing.

Instead of flashing a smile, the edges of her usually pursed lips curled up into a smirk, writing upon her face an expression that only a true rebel could read.

That was exactly what this man was not, for he instantly turned away from the dark-skinned girl, whose darker eyes stared right into him and glimmered strangely, like pebbles withdrawn from a pool of black water. He nervously preoccupied himself.

He had failed the test.

The woman nearly laughed out. She'd witnessed this scene too many times; a person creating for himself a mock-tenacity, ready to take on any disturbance with blind, spontaneous pluck. But then, as he came forward to actually look the disturbance in the face, that sudden tenacity dissolved as quickly as it had evolved. It cowered in the light of an authenticly tenacious nature.

She grinned at the thought. Her tenacity was her own, having germinated within her over the course of her life. It was an integral part of her, and one of her proudest. She loved to flaunt it whenever appropriate, and that sick little twinge of delight which she got from doing so never failed to tickle her psyche.

But her roguish delight had to lay low for now, because of the importance of her task at hand.

She averted her eyes back to the loaf in her grasp, feigning an expression of interest while inspecting the treasure.

A treasure, indeed! This paltry yellow rock was merely a diversion to cover up her intentions for the real treasure in her sights.

With her neck still arched over the bread, she glanced to her right, as far as her eyes could go. They glinted with desire for the the true treasure which hung before them.

It was such a pretty little bag; velvety red, and dangling by a shimmering gold cord, sloppily tied to its owner's belt. Like a pendulum, it hypnotically swung with the movement of the unwary man who was stooped over a crate of hens.

But what good are hens if you have no money to buy them with?

The gypsy woman grinned at this delicious opportunity. Her cat eyes glistened with feline cunning, like a lynx locking her hungry senses upon a scarlet bird.

She stood as still as a statue, her senses locked upon that scarlet coin pouch.

She had already begun fantasizing about whether or not she'd sell it after filching it. After all, it seemed luxurious enough to attract a pretty sum.

Then again, how much did the bag really matter compared to its contents? Not much, compared to the feeling of cold, clinking ecstacy resting in her palm. Oh, how her palm itched for that feeling!

Now, the man's back was turned. He appeared to be caught up in business talk. Too bad he'd never carry out that business.

The gypsy behind him lowered the loaf in her hand. Her eyes narrowed, and her senses were honed. It was time.

She shifted her weight to the right, ever so slightly. Her arm slid out, and her fingers stretched. Just a quick flick of her wrist would smoothly lift the prize. Just one little flick…

"Natalia!"

She grimaced darkly. Her head snapped around to see what confounded idiot had hollered her name. She slid away from her victim, who now looked in Natalia's direction. Then she heard him tromp away.

A perfect heist had slipped through her dainty fingers.

The thwarted cutpurse looked around; confused, irate, and willing to give into her feline side and scratch someone's eyes out.

"Natalia!" the voice called again.

She looked up, A man climbed down the side of one of the terraced row houses lining the narrow street. He swung down the window sills and protruding beams with ease, despite his stooped posture. Natalia instantly recognized him.

As he leapt down before her, the desire to scratch out his eyes quickly faded.

She nodded in greeting. "Hello, Quasimodo."

He looked up at her, his twisted face devoid of its usual tranquility. Natalia was instantly concerned.

"Something wrong, Quasi?" She kept her nasal voice calm, although she still simmered with disgruntlement.

"Where's your brother?"

Natalia rolled her eyes. For her, the words "brother" and "something wrong" meshed perfectly together, like fleas to rats.

"I should have guessed," she smirked.

"Natalia, where is he?"

She scanned the people around her, instinctively tracking all of the potential heists she saw. Then she saw her nemesis; the little red pouch. Its money jingled, practically laughing as it neared her, once again.

She slowly turned away. "Why don't you just listen for him? I'm sure you could hear him from a mile away..."

"Please, Natalia, it's important! I need to know where Clopin is."

She whirled back around and hissed, "Performing in the town square, maybe! I don't know!" She stopped. Quasimodo shrank back, crestfallen.

She sighed. No one talked to Quasi like that; they had no business to do so. That policy certainly didn't exclude Natalia.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, "I'm just… busy, right now."

"I understand."

"However," she continued, "I think I heard that he and a few others were going to perform at the old circus grounds."

"Are you sure?"

She shrugged. "It would make sense if they were doing so. I think some merchants are camped there..." She grinned. "… and I've never known Clopin to pass up a delicious opportunity like that."

_Like brother, like sister,_ she thought.

"Alright then!" Quasi sonded less anxious now.

"Glad I could help, Quasi. I'll be getting back to my business now..." The gypsy went right back to examining the bagette.

But Quasi didn't leave. "Oh, but this concerns you too!"

Natalia moaned, still staring at the bread in her hand. She could hear the coin pouch jingle tauntingly.

Then, before she could blink, a hand snatched the loaf from her grasp. She looked over in surprise, then glowered as Quasi examined it himself, apparently trying to hasten her "business."

"Looks alright. No mold, smells fresh..." He glanced at Natalia, holding it up. "Are going to buy it?"

She gaped for a minute, dumbfounded. Then she looked at the ground, irritated by this awkward position she had gotten stuck in. There was no loophole out of this one.

She cast one more longing glance at the scarlet bag, then looked back at Quasi, defeated.

"No… not today."

"Good! Come on, then!" He tossed the loaf back into its basket, then he bounded up on a low windowsill. He paused, dangling one hulking hand down as his other clutched an overhanging beam.

"You need a lift?"

Natalia placed her hand on her hip. "I can keep up with you fine down here, Quasi! Don't underestimate me just because I'm small."

Quasi laughed. "Yeah; like I'm one to talk, right?"

Natalia raised an eyebrow, and Quasi laughed again. Then he hoisted his short self upon the overhanging beam and ran across it, leaping and swinging from windowsills and clotheslines.

Natalia bolted, following the hunchback. Although she was very petite, her amount of stamina made up for her lack of height. And, needles to say, Quasimodo's agility despite his deformity never ceased to amaze her.

As she scampered along, keeping the man in sight, Natalia wondered what "important matter" could have prompted Quasi to seek her out. After all, he was already holding audience with the King of the Gypsies, so why bother with consulting the king's younger sister?

Perhaps someone more practical within the gypsy ranks was needed to balance Clopin out. Natalia beamed at the thought. She liked pretending that that was the case, and not just the fact that she was the gypsy king's sister.

"You all right down there?" Quasi called from a rooftop.

"Just fine, Quasi! Just fine..."

Natalia leapt over stack of crates, barely clearing it. She hoped this matter really was as important as Quasi had stressed; otherwise, she'd create a matter truly worth worrying over.

She'd make sure to it... if she could only manage to keep up.


	3. Chapter II

They had arrived at the old circus ground.

As its name suggested, it had been where many a traveling act had camped. The most notable of these acts had been the "Cirque du Sarousch," whose leader of the same name had actually been running a show full of theives. It had only been a year ago that Sarousch was arrested for his thwarted burglary of one of Paris' most valuable bells, named La Fidèle.

Along with that scummy "magician" went his ridiculous troupe, much to Natalia's sick pleasure. She'd always seen that traveling mess as competition, anyway.

Now that they were gone, the circus grounds were almost always empty. These grounds, which lay on the very outskirts of town, had now merely become a campground for travelers.

Natalia looked around as she strode through the campsite with Quasimodo at her side. A few of the merchants there looked up from their tasks and wares with questioning gazes, but none said anything. It was as if they were being paid a visit by the mighty landowners whose field they rested upon.

Quasimodo mumbled, "Do you see him anywhere?"

Natalia keenly scanned the area, hoping to catch sight of her brother among the lopsided tents and rugged carts which lay scattered about. She shook her head.

Suddenly, a voice from behind shouted "Monsieur, madamoiselle! Wait!"

The two turned around to see a rotund, brawny man hurrying toward them. His stubby black beard was ratty, like his hair, which stuck out awkwardly from beneath a red headscarf.

Natalia instantly recognized him. "Matteo!"

The fellow gypsy nodded at Natalia as he approached, then turned his attention back to the hunchback.

"Quasimodo…" he rumbled, his thick accent resounding through his throat, "… am I right?"

"Yes," Quasi responded, slightly nervous. "You've been looking for me?"

"Indeed. A little, yellow-haired woman came by our wagon, looking for you. Claimed to be your wife, and said that you were supposed to meet her there as planned."

"Oh no! Madellaine's already here?"

Matteo shrugged his broad shoulders. "I guess so…"

"Oh…" Quasi groaned, "I promised to meet her here and guide her to the tent."

Natalia cocked her head. "What tent?"

"The gypsies who were performing here are kindly allowing us to use one of their entertainment tents as our meeting place."

"Does Clopin know where it is?"

Quasi nodded.

"Well then," Natalia went on, "you go with Matteo and meet Madellaine, while I go find Clopin. Since he knows where we're meeting, I'll have him take me and we'll meet you there."

Quasi nodded eagerly. "That sounds great!"

Natalia turned to Matteo. "Do you know where my brother is?"

"Ah yes!" he said. "You remember the "Cirque du Sarousch," yes? Good. Clopin and a few others took a caravan wagon to the very center of the campground, where it's stony."

"You mean where the elephants used to be kept?"

"Indeed! That's where you'll find him." Matteo chuckled. "He had already attracted quite a crowd when I saw him last."

Natalia rolled her eyes. "He could attract a crowd even when he isn't performing…" She'd learned that in order to find Clopin, all one must to dois find a crowd, and there he'll usually be found.

"Yes, well, he's probably finished his show by now, so I'd suggest you hurry to fetch him."

"Of course. Merci, Matteo."

Then Quasi quickly cut in, "Oh, and Natalia! One other thing I need you to do…"

The gypsy raised her eyebrows. "Yes?"

"Assure Clopin that this is a friendly, however urgent, meeting among friends. Tell him to think of it as a 'king to king' sort of meeting."

Natalia's raised eyebrows had slowly furrowed together upon hearing this unusual message. "What..?"

Quasi grinned. "Oh, you'll find out. I'm sure of it."

"Oh, no…" Natalia shook her head. "Do I _want_ to know?"

"We'll see."

"Right… well, I'd better get going before what luck I have left today runs out."

"What?"

Natalia chuckled. "Nevermind, Quasi. You go and meet Madellaine."

So Quasi left with Matteo, and Natalia bolted the opposite way, farther into the camp.

She was still snickering about her previous comment. Although she had been prematurely pried from her "task" in town, the day hadn't turned out to be a complete loss yet.

She smirked as she glanced down at her belt, where a little red pouch jingled merrily. Maybe her luck wasn't completely lost.

* * *

When Natalia had reached the center grounds, she was relieved to see that no merchant tents or stalls awaited her.

Earlier, as she navigated through the camp, merchants seemed to pounce on her out of nowhere, showing her some of their wares and promising bargains just for her; a "lovely little lady," as they called her.

While a few of those wares were alluring, and the bargains just as tempting to accept, Natalia refused each one with as much courtesy as she could feign, even considering those "little lady" remarks.

Her new coin pouch seemed to jingle in protest as she walked past each stall and turned down offers before they were even vocalized. She grasped the bag, muffling its jingles and protecting it from wayward hands.

Now, as she stepped out into the open center of the campsite, that didn't worry her. She saw familiar figures scurrying about, taking apart a makeshift stage and depositing the parts into a horse-drawn cart.

Out of the five people there before her, the gypsy girl singled out the lanky one she'd been searching for; her brother.

She smirked, and trotting up behind the gypsy king who pulled on a jutting pole from the stage's side. As she approached, a few nearby men saw her and nudged each other, chuckling.

"Clopin! You have a little visitor!" one of them exclaimed.

The brightly costumed man, his arms still stretched up, craned his neck over, glancing about before finally looking down. His eyes locked with the little woman.

"Hello, dear brother..." she drawled.

Clopin tilted his head to the side. A dramaticly melancholy expression shadowed over his face.

"I'm so sorry little girl, but the show's over!" He turned fully around and crouched over a bit, placing his hands upon his knees.

He looked her in the eyes, and with all the sweetness of honey, cooed, "All the puppets are gone, my little cabbage..."

Natalia gritted her teeth, and with all the sweetness of vinegar, growled, "Come thee with me, or get thee beneath me!"

He rolled his eyes and sighed. "You never could take such jokes, could you, Natty?"

"Never could, never will."

Clopin shook his head and again sighed loudly. Then, without warning, he turned and hopped up on the stage, using the pole he'd struggled with as a means of swinging up there. Being quite the acrobat —like his sister—he could make such a feat look as if he were being lifted up by some invisible puppeteer.

"Come one! Come all! And see the beast to be most feared!"

Some other gypsies looked up from their work. Some who were already leaving in their wagons stopped. Even a few foreign tradesmen set their focus upon Clopin.

Crazy, crazy Clopin.

"Yes, this awful creature stands among you! Why, there might even be more than one of it here!"

"And what do they call this creature?" called a voice.

Clopin glanced about theatrically. "My fine sir! Behold, they call it…" He swung his arms out so they pointed at the small, cross woman in his midst.

"The wet rag!" Immediately after he said that, bellows of laughter erupted from many in the crowd. Others, such as the gypsies who were leaving, just rolled their eyes and moved on, all too familiar with their king's gimmicks. Yet others just couldn't get enough of him.

But only one person did nothing but glare.

Clopin grinned at his glaring sister and leapt down before her. "Yes, this creature desires only one thing; to dampen all pleasure!" He stood erect, rubbing the scruffy goatee on his tipped chin.

"Shall I wring her out?" he asked, still using his his show-master timbre.

Some enthusiastic shouts of approval ensued, but Natalia didn't even blink. She was not in the mood for jests now that her entire "free day" was wasting away before her eyes.

They stared without blinking. Soon, Clopin's eyes softened and he shook his head. He only half-smiled this time, but it was more genuine that a full smile.

Natalia knew that, despite her brother's silliness, he still had keen intuition when it came to his jokes going so far as to hang on a tightrope over fire. He hardly let "far" become "too far." At least, not on purpose.

However, he still liked to get away with just one last joke.

He turned to his audience. "My friends; I would wring her out if she were not drenched in boiling water! But mark my words, I will when she's cooled off!"

Satisfied with his pledge, the crowd dissolved, all returning to the tasks they'd briefly escaped from. Only Clopin and Natalia remained idle.

"Now then, Natty..." Clopin said as he whirled around to face her. "What troubles you?"

"For one thing, that cursed nickname."

"Now why's that, Natty?"

"Because I'd rather not be compared to a tiny fly!"

Clopin grinned. "Hence, your perfect nickname."

Natalia shook her head at the futility of this arguement and went on to her next point. "Second of all, aren't you needed here to finish cleaning up?"

Clopin waved his hand as if the matter was but a fly in his face. "Eh, some else will do it, I'm sure. Yes, some noble gent will come along and do it for me."

His sister glanced about. She spotted a gawky, nervous-looking man, who carefully watched all the commotion from a safe distance.

Natalia chuckled. "You mean someone like him?"

Clopin's eyes followed her gaze. His cheeks pulled back into a sly grin.

"Why, yes…"

"What? No, I was only joking about– hey, wait! Stop!"

Natalia watched in horror as her brother ran off. He began speaking with the man as soon as he reached him, making a few dramatic gestures and once briefly pointing at Natalia's.

What's this! He was dragging _her _into it?

Natalia's eyes narrowed. This "wet rag" had been thrown back into boiling water.

The frazzled looking man held her gaze for a moment, then nodded at Clopin, who grinned like a dog.

Then, waving at the poor man behind him and loudly proclaiming him a "noble gent," Clopin lightfootedly bounded back to where Natalia stood. Her grimace stood in stark, stark contrast to her brother's wide beaming grin.

"I can't believe you just did that!" she hissed.

"Neither can I," he responded, still grinning, "but you really do have a good eye for a good worker! He was happy to oblige to the task."

Natalia growled, "And you mentioned _me_?"

"Of course! You're the one who so kindly reccomended him."

"But-- but you saw how awkward he was over there... hardly fit for something like that!"

Clopin feigned a shocked expression and slapped his palm against his forehead. "You mean to say... _that's_ why you singled him out? And you had _me _send him to his doom? How cruel!"

His sister muttered. "Such a sadist…"

"I know you are, Natty… and I'm absolutely appalled!" he tsk-tsked.

"You know, sometimes I wonder which of us is _really_ the eldest."

"Such a silly thing to wonder about!" he tsked again. "If you were the eldest, that would make you the queen of gypsies, right?"

Natalia popped her chin up a bit and smiled, taking quite a liking to the sound of such a fantasy. "Right…" she agreed wistfully.

"Wrong!"

Natalia raised an eyebrow and looked up, getting annoyed at her brother's absurd, though tiresomely expected, remarks.

"And why's that?" she demanded.

Clopin raised his finger in a somewhat enlightened manner, like a wise old preist explaining the meaning of life.

"For one thing," he quipped, "no one could stand you ruling for a day much less forever. Why, I'm sure they'd even overthrow you; if any were left surviving under your rule, that is."

Ignoring the menacing glare he was recieving from the midget beside him, he continued, "I'd still be king, even if you were the eldest." He grinned. "How could anyone resist…?"

"Resist what?" sneered Natalia. "Your 'tantalizing charm?'"

Her brother grinned even more. "Not what I was about to say… but now that you bring it up, yes! You simply flatter me!"

His sister shook her head and sighed. "Great. Not only are you sadist, but a narcissist, as well."

With sudden grace, he bounded toward a stray tent pole and leapt upon it, swinging 'round and 'round until he stopped, leaning back into one of his signature poses.

"At least I'm not a troublemaker. For that, you should be thankful."

Natalia smirked. "That depends upon your definition of 'trouble,' for it is you, if I'm not mistaken."

Clopin chuckled, "What I make is 'mischief,' not 'trouble.'"

"Is there really any difference between the two?"

"As a matter of fact, Natty, yes there is…" He leapt down from the pole like a sparrow from a perch. Such spontaneous acrobatics were, to him, as natural as walking.

Once again "enlightened," he placed his hands behind his back and went on to say this: "'Mischief' is playful. Coming with undesired results, maybe, but hardly ever intentional. 'Trouble' is different; 'trouble' is deliberate, along with its often nasty results. You're familiar with 'trouble,' hmm?" He stared at Natalia, who shrugged.

"Like what?"

"Impulsive stealing…"--his smile decreased-- "…especially when it's not permitted, much less needed."

Natalia stopped and turned to Clopin, looking him full in the face. " Listen. I was born a survivor, grew up a survivor, and remain a survivor! Survival is what has kept us gypsies alive for so long."

A bemused expression crept into her brother's countenance. "If that's the case, then you'd best perfect the most important survivor skill of all, which it seems you've neglected."

"What?"

From behind his back, he tossed up a familiar, red item and caught it in front with his other hand. "Retaining your prize, of course!"

With instant recognition, Natalia screeched, "My coin pouch!" Her eyes went ablaze as she jutted her arm out to snatch it. But her much taller brother held it high above his head.

"Give it back, you louse!" she growled between futile leaps. Each time she leapt, Clopin would move the bag a little farther from her reach. The coins inside jingled as merrily as his laugh.

Then Natalia tried climbing her brother like a tree, but to utter failure. She was no match for his other hand, which ruthlessly tickled just the right spot on her side.

She yelped like a puppy and let go, tumbling backwards to the ground. Above her, Clopin chuckled as he slid his prize into one of his many pockets. "Whatever ill-gotten, ill-taken." Then he extended his hand toward the girl in the dirt. His face fell somber as he hoisted her to her feet.

"But seriously, Natalia," he muttered, "Sometimes, I wonder if you _want _us to be shunned."

"We're not 'shunned,' but we're not totally 'accepted' either."

"I can assure you, we're more accepted than we were six years ago."

Natalia cringed. That was a bad time for the gypsies; a time when a nightmare incarnate roamed Paris, as he had in the dark recesses of every outcast's mind. That nightmare's name was Judge Claude Frollo.

His death six years ago marked the birth of a new kind of liberty for the Parisian gypsies. Though it started out shaky, many of the townfolk's trust grew over the years, but some remained skeptical. It was the shenanigans of gypsies like Natalia who only broadened that skepticism.

"So what, you want me to give up my way of survival?" It had become a natural part of Natalia's character throughout many a trying time, and she wouldn't give it up so easily. Like acrobatics were as natural to Clopin as walking, so was pick-pocketing to Natalia.

"That would be nice," Clopin replied, "for we do have other 'ways of survival' which _have _worked and are far less… _destructive_."

"Clopin, we can't just live off of dancing in the streets!"

"The rest of us do."

Natalia finally shut her mouth and looked away. She did _not _want to talk about this anymore. Some changes were better left unspoken of, no matter how prominent they had become in one's life, or how difficult they might've made one's life to be.

_Not a word more, Natalia. Not a word… _Natalia rest assured that her voice would one accursed day, if such a day came, be heard loudest in silence; a dumbfounded silence at those 'changes,' manifested in a way that has reverted things to the way they once were, wasting the world's time, its hope.

But for now, she'd say not another word of the matter. Not a word.

A few seconds drifted by when Clopin suddenly halted and broke the silence, as perky as if he'd just stepped out of a circus.

"So, where are we going?"

Natalia halted as well. She looked around.

"Good question…" Then she remembered. "Oh! We're supposed to be heading to your tent here, to meet Quasi and Madellaine."

Clopin turned around, leading this lost little goose the right way.

"Do you have any idea about this 'meeting?'" she asked suspiciously, "What's it all about? Or did Quasi just skirt around your wonderings, as well?"

Clopin just shrugged. "I guess we'll find out together."

"How very comforting."

But the day was still young; things could change, and Natalia knew it…


End file.
